Blindsided (Legends of London #1)

Chapter 1

There’s a high probability the man next to me is dead.

I’ve been sitting on this rickety barstool at a pub near my new flat in Chelsea, and he hasn’t moved once, not even when the bar collectively sang along to ‘Sweet Caroline’, and the bah, bah, bah made the walls shake.

I briefly consider poking him to see if he’ll reanimate, but I think better of it before turning away to sip my cocktail.

Not my problem. I have enough of those without inserting myself into a potential crime scene.

I may have been a little hasty in my search for a place to live, but in my overwhelming defense, I was catfished by the landlord. The pictures on the listing made the place look charming and bright. What I got was dirty walls, mold in the bathroom, and cockroach flatmates.

I took one survey around the room, sucked the tear threatening to fall at the sight of the mess back up into its duct, and decided to drown my sorrows in a watered down martini.

Now, there’s a probable dead guy next to me, and all it’ll take is one gust of wind coming through the door for him to fall over on me, effectively staining my cream cashmere sweater.

I take a long pull from my second drink of the night, grimacing as the acrid flavor floods my mouth. To be honest, I probably shouldn’t have ordered a martini in a pub that caters to partying university students, but I needed something strong after the last week, month, year I’ve had.

My phone buzzes on the bar top in front of me, a text notification sweeping across the screen from my manager, the most vocal critic of my move to the UK.

Maxine

Don’t forget you have a meeting at 5:30pm PST. Time zone differences aside, your presence is mandatory. You don’t want to lose investors’ trust anymore than you already have.

The reminder rankles, leaving the bitter taste of gin clogging up my throat, and I shove my phone in my purse, desperate to steal a moment of peace.

I’ve never forgotten a meeting in the years since creating Jaded, but after a decade under my employ, Maxine liked to overstep boundaries and forget that I’m her boss.

Reminder aside, and barring the fact that it’ll be after one in the morning here, and I just spent twelve hours traveling across the world, I would be there fresh faced and looking every bit the leader that I am.

I had to be—the work never stops when you’re the CEO and face of your own label.

It didn’t make it any less exhausting though.

“You’re a pretty little bird, aren’t you?” My previously presumed dead bar neighbor reanimates, popping off the bar like a drunken jack-in-the-box.

His accent is thick as his mouth purses, forcing out vowels and sending the stench of beer wafting over to suffocate my air space.

From the corner of my eye, I notice his glazed eyes leering over me like I’m the last fried doughnut at the county fair, and I shift away to try and create any semblance of space.

“Thank you,” I say curtly, trying to discourage further conversation.

All I came here for was to think and drink.

On the extremely rare occasion I do go out, my resting bitch face usually does a good job deterring people from approaching me, but maybe men in England don’t care. At the very least, this one doesn’t.

Lucky me.

“American, eh?” His voice is loud, and the beginnings of a migraine start to form at the base of my skull. It’s been awhile since my last visit, but I thought it was impolite to talk to strangers here, or was that just limited to tube etiquette?

I respond by giving a terse nod as I pull my phone out of my bag. The screen coupled with the dim lighting in the bar does nothing to help the throb advancing in my head. Even so, if I look busy, maybe this guy will get my point and leave me alone.

I quickly open my email and notice a minimum of fifteen demanding immediate attention, most of them pertaining to work back in LA, but a few have to do with why I’m here.

A churning starts in my stomach when I think about the fact that I already spent the entire plane ride abusing the in-flight wifi, working and answering emails, only for them to have already piled up again.

Ignore them, a voice edging on desperation whispers in my head.

It’s the same voice that started to creep in with every ping of my email on the flight, getting stronger and stronger the further I flew from the West Coast. I ignored it then out of guilt and responsibility, but now, I heed its advice, putting my phone face down on the table.

It’s ten o’clock at night, and I’m trying to develop boundaries, I remind myself.

Trying being the key word, because a second later, I grab my phone again to respond to a couple more urgent messages out of habit.

Never stop the grind; it’s the American dream, right?

When I started working at the age of fifteen, posting silly videos online as a hobby—as a way to make friends—I never realized it could ever turn into what it did.

I started small, talking about things I liked or books I was reading, but as I grew, so did my content.

Suddenly, people were looking to me for beauty and styling tips, and it became less about me and more about the trends around me.

I fell into a niche I cultivated a little too well, because I ended up with a brand empire.

Product placement turned into small brand deals, which turned into massive brand deals, which turned into a permanent move to the West Coast. My once small corner of the internet amassed ten million followers by the time I hit my twenty-first birthday.

I collaborated with major brands, created my own products, developed my own label, Jaded, by twenty-three, and invested a hell of a lot of money really well.

Now, I’m here, in London, on what could possibly be a fool’s errand.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he slurs, leaning back into my space, beer foam settling into the corners of his mouth. I think I’d prefer drinking with the cockroaches in my flat to this.

“No. I already have one.” I put a little more bite into my tone.

“No need to be a bitch, I’m just payin’ you a compliment. You should feel flattered.”

God, I am so sick of men telling me what to do.

I level him with a death glare. “I’m floored by your generosity.” Sarcasm oozes from every syllable.

He leans into me, and I lean back, breaking my spine to get out of the way while trying to not fall out of my seat.

“Thas’ good, pet. So, drink then?”

I’m done. Beyond done. I’m tired, this cocktail sucks, and my feet hurt from the heels I’ve had on all day. I can’t be responsible for what I do or say as incandescent feminine rage slithers over my body like a shield.

I drizzle my tone with honey. “Pet? How…cute. I could walk you down the street by my belt, and you would thank me for the honor. If anyone here is a bitch, it’s you.

Learn that no means fuck off and apologize to your wife when you get home for being an absolute pig.

I suggest you sober up, drink some water, and go sleep off this embarrassment.

” He pales at the mention of his wife, trying to hide the ring I clocked on his finger by stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

He shoots up from his barstool, face red and puffy with anger, and takes a step toward me.

I start to move off my stool, but before I can, a tattooed arm from my left comes out of nowhere, stopping the drunk in his tracks.

The mystery man steps in front of me, fully blocking the other from seeing or reaching me.

It also affords me a delicious view of his back—broad and tall, very tall.

I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, and he still towers over me at my five-foot-seven.

“She said to piss off, mate.” His voice is deep, threaded with the promise of physical violence. Something in me purrs to life, making me desperate to match a face to the seductive sound. It’s apparently effective in more ways than the one, too, because the drunk actually leaves, just like that.

A scoff crawls up my throat. “Of course he’ll listen to a fucking man.” I plop back down onto my barstool and signal the bartender for another martini.

When he turns around, I blink once. Twice.

A third time, because…holy shit. I lived in LA for nearly a decade, encountered some of the most beautiful people you could imagine, but none of them hold a candle to him.

He has the most striking blue eyes that glow like bioluminescence, a jawline men in LA pay thousands for at prestigious medspas, and a gorgeous head of deep brown hair set against sun tanned skin.

How is one that tan in a country that rarely sees the sun?

“I’m really sorry about him. We’re not all like that here, I promise. I hope you don’t let it ruin your visit.” I don’t correct his assumption that I don’t live here.

“Thanks for stepping in,” I reply with gratitude.

The smile he gives me is so disarming, I can feel my pulse start to speed up. “I shouldn’t have had to,” he says genuinely. “You had it handled. I was trying not to piss myself laughing at the look on his face when you laid him out.”

This incites a rumble of laughter, and I realize belatedly the noise is coming from me. Jesus, has it been so long since I’ve laughed that I didn’t even recognize my own? I take a rather large gulp of my cocktail to avoid thinking about that sad fact.

He must take my silence as disinterest in the conversation he was trying to strike up and says, “Right, well, I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”

He taps his hand against the counter, making to leave, when I blurt out, “Would you like to join me?”

The words startle me, and clearly, I’ve startled him, because he’s quiet for a moment before smiling broadly and pulling out the stool next to mine to take a seat. He orders a whisky from a passing bartender after getting settled and turns to face me.

“What brings you to town?” he asks.

“Work.”

“And what do you do for work?”